


In Scandinavia

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, M/M, Morrissey lyrics reference, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blizzard. A blackout. A fluffy white eiderdown. John & Sherlock make the most of it. In Scandinavia!</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Scandinavia

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a "first encounter" between John & Sherlock; it could take place any time in the series, but I think I might place it in the winter after "A Scandal in Belgravia." You can time it whenever you like, as suits your preferences!
> 
> Please note: I use the "Mature" rating for even graphic depictions of sex between consenting adults, and reserve the "Explicit" rating for kink/non-con, etc. This story contains graphic language.
> 
> You'll find a link after the story to the song which inspired its title and some of its content.

                “Right. That’s it. We’re stuck.”

                John rang off his mobile and tossed it onto the miles-high hotel bed. Sherlock, curled into the smallest possible ball his rangy frame would allow amidst a pile of pillows, stared narrow-eyed at the television set as if he would murder it, his arm extended fully, wielding the remote control and relentlessly scrolling through the channels. His lip curled into a sneer and he actually growled.

                John pushed aside the curtains to peer out the window. The intrusion of the afternoon daylight  elicited a louder, more aggressive growl from Sherlock. John ignored him. The view was tone-on-tone: slate-white sky, ash-white sea, blinding white ground. Sodden, sloppy globs of ice-white snow were blowing nearly sideways past the window. John had an idea of where the road must be, between the hotel grounds and the churning, white-capped ocean, but at the moment there was no suggestion of it; a suffocating layer of snow blanketed everything, blurring it all into a massive, lumpen landscape where any given bump could be either a car or a bus shelter. Or a building, for that matter. John let the drapes fall closed, pivoted on his heel, and rubbed his hands together.

                “Airport’s shut,” he reported. “No train service. No taxis. We are in the middle of one hell of a Norwegian—and here’s the bit I like—‘snøstorm.’ That’s the Norwegian word for ‘snowstorm.’” John glanced at the television set, racing through channel after channel as Sherlock brandished the remote. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, you can’t even see what the programme is when you—“

                Sherlock let out a loud, furious grunt and hurled the remote out to the side, where it ricocheted off the edge of a bureau and into the wastebasket beside the desk. He splayed his long limbs dramatically, sinking into the bed as if weighted down, and let out a gusty sigh.

                “Curse this wretched place,” he moaned.

                John scrambled to save his phone from hitting the floor, and slipped it into the hip pocket of his jeans. He crossed his arms over his chest.

                “Can’t control the weather, I’m afraid,” he said matter-of-factly.

                “Who can’t—you? Or me?” Sherlock demanded, petulant.

                “OK, I see you’re in a mood. . .”

                Sherlock sneered. “Norway,” he muttered with obvious disgust. “Norwegians.”

                John could barely contain a laugh, but knew better than to let Sherlock hear it when his ire was up like this. He hid it in a cough and said, “What have you got against Norwegians?”

                “Scandinavians. Every last one of them should roast eternally on the spits of Hell.”

                “Every one?”

                “Their children should die weeping in prisons for the insane!”

                “Surely not their children.” John’s smirk was irrepressible now, and he sat on the edge of the bed, keeping his back to Sherlock.

                “What is this? What is THIS?!” Sherlock demanded, his upturned palm gesturing furiously toward the television. John glanced up at what appeared to be either a children’s program or an advertisement for. . .was it possibly fish soda?

                John leaned down to unroll and reroll the turn-up on his trouser leg. “Anyway, it’s not Hell they’d be roasting in. Wouldn’t it be Valhalla? Is Valhalla even hot?”

                Sherlock moaned, pulled a pillow over his face and wrapped his arms around it as if to smother himself. John ignored him and went on wondering.

                “Makes me think of Vikings, Valhalla. Viking funerals. That’s burning. Could be Valhalla’s about burning, too, then, I suppose.”

                Sherlock screamed into the pillow, kicked his legs furiously against the mattress, tangling up the sheets and blankets around his legs. John glanced longer than was strictly necessary at Sherlock’s bare chest as the sheet slid down to his waist. Was that an appendectomy scar? It was a wonder the appendix itself wasn’t floating in a jar in their refrigerator at Baker Street. Or perhaps it was, and John simply hadn’t yet come across it. John looked away, coughed again.

                “Shall I order room service?” John stood and crossed to the bureau, fiddling needlessly with his billfold, the hotel suite’s keycards, and some loose change. He stacked the coins, largest at the bottom, smallest on top.

                Sherlock stopped smothering himself and let the pillow drop down in front of his chest.

                “The tea here is rubbish. And all the food has fish in it.”

                “You like fish.”

                “I like fish when I want fish. The food here is nothing _but_ fish,” Sherlock sulked.

                John paged through the leather-bound binder containing the hotel information until he found the room service menu. “There’s beef Wellington. That’s not likely to be fish.”

                Sherlock snorted.

                John sighed a bit, through his nose. “Will we venture out, then? Maybe something’s open nearby. Trondheim’s a big city; there’s bound to be some brave soul in a chip shop waiting for wayward Englishmen to wander in looking for not-fish.” He realized he was appeasing Sherlock’s childish mood and reminded himself: That Way Lies Madness.

                Sherlock swung his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed, his back straight. His index finger swept aside his fringe, though it fell immediately back into the same arrangement; Sherlock’s hair did what it liked. John made for the bedroom door.

                “I’ll wait out here while you get dressed, then,” he offered, jerking his thumb toward the sitting room. Sherlock didn’t reply, or even move.

                John removed himself to the sitting room, paced a few times beside the sofa-table. Once the case had finished—Sherlock hadn’t been off the plane but two hours before he’d rattled off his conclusions to the Trondheim Bank’s head of security—John had known that Sherlock might turn sour on him, but between the “too easy” nature of the case and his apparently virulent views on Scandinavia, Sherlock had fallen into a sulk almost immediately. Now they were snowed in for at least another night, and while John was inclined to make the best of a bad situation, the swirling grey cloud of Sherlock’s misery was something to contend with. John briefly considered locking himself into the suite’s second bedroom, firing up his laptop and playing a game with his earbuds in. He could duck Sherlock until it was time to fly home. The door to his bedroom was open; he could see his laptop on the corner of his own, enormous bed.

                “Beef Wellington sounds fine.” Sherlock emerged, now dressed—or at least moreso than he had been—in one of the hotel’s whiter-than-white terrycloth bathrobes and a pair of black socks that stopped at midcalf. He poured himself a generous shot of whiskey from a glass decanter on the countertop. John surmised they were staying in.

                “Excellent. Order one for me, too, will you? And do you think they do Yorkshire puddings with it? They must.” John passed into his bedroom and proceeded to take off his shoes, placing them neatly on the closet floor, toes lined up. He wriggled his feet gratefully against the plush carpet. Popping his head back out the door, he grinned, “Oh, and dessert--whatever looks good. And some of the rubbish tea.” He pointed to the decanter. “Pour me one of those, too, will you?”

                Sherlock grimaced but John knew it was put on. Sherlock’s mood seemed lighter suddenly, and John knew the worst had passed when Sherlock did, indeed, pour a solid glug of whiskey into one of the short, stout glasses for him. He set the glass on the coffee table in front of the sofa and disappeared back into his bedroom. As John fired up his laptop, he heard Sherlock’s voice, distantly, as he placed their room service order. From two rooms away, though, it was as if Sherlock was murmuring. John closed his eyes for longer than a blink.

                John checked his email, then his blog to see his hit-count and look for new comments. It had been a few weeks since his last summary of a case, so while there were a few recent hits, the only new comments were asking him when he might make a new post. Writing up “The Case of the Counterfeit Kroner” would be his top priority once they got back to Baker Street. He would need some time to think up a sexy spin on domestic banking in Norway.

                He dashed off a cheerful email to his sister Harry, just to let her know his whereabouts and about being snowed in, and as he clicked “Send,” the lights went out.

                “Bloody, bloody Norway!” Sherlock shouted.

                John called back, “I’m sure a hotel this size has a back-up generator.” The lights flickered on, off, then stayed on. “You see?”

                Sherlock grumbled something that sounded like words but John didn’t bother to ask him to repeat himself. John fired up his favourite game and prepared to loot a desert temple he’d had his eye on for weeks.

                He’d only collected a few hundred gold and a mystic staff (unidentified) when the lights went out again. A window popped up at the corner of his screen reminding him how much battery life he had. Sherlock threw something—a book?—and shouted, “For God’s sake!” John continued his plundering, figured the lights would flicker back on. Several long minutes later, he had freed a martyr-eagle trapped in amber (reward: +1 to long-range attack), but the lights were still out.

                Sherlock’s booming, deep voice demanded, “Why can’t I send you a message?”

                “Don’t have messages open.”

                “Well, open it then.”

                John sighed, then shouted, “Can you not just yell it like you’re doing now?”  He muttered, “Oh, nevermind,” saved his game and quit, and opened his messenger program. Instantly the tone sounded and a message appeared:

                S_Holmes: BORED.

                DrJW221: Yes, well, you would be.

                S_Holmes: VERY BORED.

                DrJW221: Food should be here soon. Shall we play chess online?

                S_Holmes: DEFINITELY. THEN YOU CAN FIND A DATE ON DATE A BORING DOCTOR DOT COM AND WE CAN UPLOAD VIDEOS OF SKATEBOARD BLOOPERS TO MYTUBE.

                John shook his head, tempted to shut down his computer and go to bed. He glanced at his watch: only 3:45. Out his window, the sun was already setting, or at least he assumed it was, as he could not see it through the thick coating of grey-white cloud in the sky. Either way, it was definitely growing darker.

                S_Holmes: . . .

                DrJW221: Low battery, I’m going to shut down for a bit. Did I leave my whiskey in the sitting room?

                S_Holmes: I DRANK IT.

                Well, that figured.

                S_Holmes: . . .

                John shut down his laptop and laid it aside. The wind whipped huge blobs of wet, sleety snow against his window and he rose to draw the curtains shut. The heater beneath the window was still warm but without electricity, it wasn’t blowing. He wondered if the power was likely to be restored before the room became uncomfortably cold.

                His mobile beeped at him and he fished it out of his hip pocket.

                TXT from SH: STILL BORED AND NOW IT’S GETTING DARK.

                John rolled his eyes. He called out, “Why don’t you listen to music or something?”

                There came a knock at the door to the suite. John went to answer it as he knew Sherlock would not be bothered. In the hall stood a bellman with a rolling table containing several plates covered with metal cloches, as well as a bud vase with a sprig of holly in it, and a bottle of the local specialty: a caraway-flavoured, lethally alcoholic spirit called Aquavit. The bellman looked contrite.

                “Dr. Watson? Sir,” he began, in amusingly accented English. “I apologize. The kitchen has no electrics for cooking at this time. The chef has sent for you some snacks uncooked, with apologies for it, and this bottle, with compliments.” He lifted the bottle from the table and offered it to John obsequiously. John stood aside to let the bellman roll the table into the sitting room, hefting the bottle in his hand and studying the inscrutable description printed on the label in Norwegian. “Also, candles,” the bellman said, indicating several small candles in tiny jars, and a box of wooden matches.

                “Well, that’s very kind,” John said, as the bellman removed the metal cloches from the plates. Two small loaves of bread, some cheeses, a bowl of what looked to be pickled something—possibly small onions?—and a generous stack of heads-on herring. John crossed quickly and pressed the bellman’s hand down to re-cover the plate of fish. “We won’t need the kippers,” he explained, smiling. The bellman looked puzzled, but removed the plate and made for the door.

                John felt in his pocket for some cash, found a five-Euro note and, finding the bellman’s hands full, slid it into the breast pocket of his jacket with an apologetic look. The bellman nodded and left. John shut the door behind him and called out, “Sherlock? There’s food here if you’re hungry.” He set the bottle and the plates of bread and cheese on the coffee table. “And aquavit, if you’re suicidal.”

                Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, the fluffy hotel bathrobe left open over low-slung pyjama pants knotted with a drawstring that skimmed his jutting hip bones. John retrieved the empty glass Sherlock had drained on his behalf and moved to pour himself whiskey.

                Sherlock sank onto the sofa, which faced an enormous picture window, with a view to the sea. There was not a light to be seen in any direction; this part of the city, at least, was in a state of complete blackout. John fetched three of the little candles, set two on the sofa table behind the couch and one on the countertop by the whiskey decanter, struck a match and lit them. He lowered himself onto the opposite end of the sofa from Sherlock and took a swig of the whiskey, grimaced appreciatively.

                Sherlock eyed up the bottle of aquavit, a tiny, wry smile forming on his lips. “Afraid?” he asked John.

                “A bit, yeah,” John admitted with a grin. “It’s something like half alcohol; and it’s got a reputation.” He tore off a small chunk of bread from one of the loaves, sliced a bit of cheese with a cunning contraption consisting of a thin blade, a wire, and a tiny screw attached to a wooden handle. “Night’s young, though, and the lights are out, so I may find that I need a higher level of amusement later on.” Sherlock laughed a bit at this, tucked into the food. The two of them ate in companionable silence for a while, taking in the view as the sky grew ever darker. Before long, there was nothing left to see but their own reflections, lit by the candles, and an occasional wind-whipped chunk of snow splatting on the windowpane.

                John sank back into the sofa cushions and read his watch by the candlelight. It was just gone six o’clock.

                “Too early to go to bed, I suppose,” he mused.

                Sherlock lurched forward and in nearly a single motion he had grabbed the bottle of aquavit, unscrewed the cap, and poured them each a shot in their now-empty whiskey glasses. He passed a glass to John and raised his own in a toast. “To the long, dark night of the soul, trapped in the frozen Valhalla of horrid, repugnant Scandinavia.”

                John tapped his glass against Sherlock’s. “I’ll drink to that. And God save the Queen.”

                “Let’s not talk about Mycroft,” Sherlock retorted. Both broke into smiles.

                “Do we sip it or just slug it down?” John asked.

                Sherlock shared a conspiratorial look, nodding. “Oh, slug it down, I think.”

                John shrugged, and they both tipped back their glasses. John came away sputtering, the tips of his ears turning red. “Bloody mother of—!” he exclaimed.

                Sherlock, who had merely sipped, slapped John on the back. “Good man!” he said encouragingly, with a wide smile.

                John coughed, grimaced, wiped tears from his eyes. At last he gasped out, “Bugger Scandinavia!”

                “Indeed.”

                “Pour us another.”

                An hour later, the bottle was nearly half empty and John was quite drunk, pleasantly soft around the edges, but finding a need to concentrate on not slurring when he spoke. Sherlock, though not laid so low as John’s current state, had gone from slightly surly and annoyed to rather relaxed and chatty. John was content to listen to Sherlock holding forth on topics ranging from how certain brands of aquavit—including the one they were drinking—were sent on ships from Norway to Australia before being bottled, to the number of blowflies to be found upon and around a body three days dead.

                John noticed Sherlock had drawn his legs up under him and held the front of his bathrobe closed in front of his chest. Without the heat going in the suite, it was getting quite chilly.

                “Bit cold?” John asked, and rose to stand. He caught himself in a sway, looked triumphant once he was steady, then went to his bedroom. In total darkness, he felt around for and moved his laptop from the bed to the desk, then yanked the down-filled, bright white duvet from the bed and dragged it with him back to the sitting room. He draped it over Sherlock’s lap and resumed his seat on the sofa, perhaps a bit closer to Sherlock than he’d been before.

                “Eiderdown is plucked only from the breast of the female eider duck,” Sherlock intoned. “Of course, very few of the blankets we think of as eiderdowns are even filled with eiderdown anymore; they use domestic geese instead.” As he spoke, he tossed part of the blanket out to the side, letting it settle over John, who sat somewhat slumpily, but facing forward with his toes pointing straight ahead, in line with his knees, and his hands flat upon each thigh, as was his habit.

                “Why do we still call it an eiderdown, then?” John asked.

                “Why do people do anything?” Sherlock replied, blasé. Clearly he had already lost interest in the topic. They were quiet a moment, both gazing toward the window.

                “Are there lights, there?” John asked, squinting out toward the far right of their view. “Maybe they’re restoring the power?”

                Sherlock looked. “It’s just the Northern Lights,” he replied, then clarified, “Technically, the Aurora Borealis.”

                John drew back his head in surprise, looked again. Sure enough, there were ghostly wisps of blue-green shimmering low in the sky to the North. The storm had subsided and the clouds were moving out, clearing the sky for this remarkable sight.

                “It’s lovely,” John commented. Sherlock hummed in agreement.

                As they watched, the clouds moving out to sea made room for an increasingly impressive display of ghostly luminescent swirls and swoops of green, white, and pink light. Before long, what had at first been a flicker in the corner of John’s vision was filling their window from edge to edge. John’s mouth dropped open. Neither of them spoke.

                John’s hands still rested palms-down on his thighs, beneath the welcome weight and warmth of the duvet. He was sunk into the sofa so his head rested against its back. He held his breath for a moment and listened to Sherlock’s breathing, long and shallow, as if perhaps he had fallen asleep, or was about to. John glanced sideways at Sherlock, who gazed at the bogglingly beautiful Aurora Borealis through half-closed eyes, his long, lean frame bundled into a sort of knot. Two of the three candles had fizzled out, the flames drowned in pools of melted wax. The remaining one cast shadows across Sherlock’s face: the deep ridge of his browbone, the upward swerve of his nose, the question-mark curve of his cheekbone. John felt drunker than ever. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and turned his gaze back toward the window.

                Sherlock’s hand slid over John’s forearm and came to rest on top of his hand; Sherlock’s fingers sank delicately into the spaces between John’s fingers. John closed his eyes, ever-so-gently squeezed his fingers against Sherlock’s, relaxed his hand again, opened his eyes. He was tempted to speak, did not have any idea what he would say if he did. His stomach flipped, and he could not be sure whether to blame the drink. Sherlock’s thumb traced a lazy oblong on the outer edge of John’s hand.

                Neither averted his gaze from the view. Neither spoke.

                The tangled knot of rangy, pale limbs that was Sherlock unfurled slightly, shifted, slid, settled much closer to John now, his knee pressing against John’s knee, his forearm and John’s forearm side by side.  The toes of one of Sherlock’s bare feet slid under the edge of John’s thigh. The cold seeped through his jeans and John found himself thrilled by it.

                John turned his head slightly and here was Sherlock’s shoulder, mostly bare as the white bathrobe had slipped down, and here was the curve of Sherlock’s long, pale neck, and here was the edge of his jaw, and it was all John could do not to press his lips there—to kiss, to bite—but the gentle weight of Sherlock’s hand on his reminded him to be still.

                “It was quite annoying, wondering whether you would find my taking your hand revolting or not.“ Sherlock said matter-of-factly, but quietly. “And then further annoying never to have found an opportune moment to test my theory that you would not--” Sherlock curled John’s fingers beneath his own. “--find it revolting.”

                John shifted slightly toward Sherlock, let himself lean close to that inviting curve of Sherlock’s shoulder and neck, then started to speak. “Sherlock—“

                “Shut up.” Sherlock’s tone wasn’t angry; nonetheless he corrected himself. “I mean.” And his next word ghosted out on a low, warm breath against the side of John’s face.

“Hush. . .”

                They nuzzled against each other, Sherlock’s hair brushing John’s temple, the air between them sweet and warm with the scents of alcohol and spice; John caught his breath in a small, sharp gasp and his eyes fell shut. Sherlock’s hand gripped John’s hand a bit harder. How was Sherlock’s cheek so smooth? John was desperate to kiss Sherlock’s pale lips, to pull Sherlock’s chest against his own, this was a wonder, he wished he was less drunk, he wished he was far more drunk. Sherlock guided their entwined hands onto his own thigh and John let his fingertips slide along the soft, polished cotton of Sherlock’s pyjama pants, pressing but not grasping at the flesh beneath, on the way to resuming the tangle of their entwined fingers. He could feel Sherlock breathing against his ear, his cheek. John’s head spun, and that he blamed squarely on the drink.

 Sherlock’s lips skimmed along John’s face, the corner of John’s mouth, and then their mouths were nested together, just so, briefly, and Sherlock pulled away just enough, and John found himself aching with a mad, almost murderous, desire to crush Sherlock. . .consume him. . . _have_ him. . .and then, thank god, Sherlock’s lips were on his lips again, and Sherlock’s tongue teased into John’s mouth, then out again, and Sherlock let out a sigh that was nearly a moan, and their hands gripped each other tighter.

                John’s free hand found Sherlock’s torso and slid up his side and across to the center of his chest—Sherlock’s chest was smooth, too, but hard, it was remarkable—and John rested his hand there, feeling Sherlock’s heartbeat, faintly, against the heel of his hand. Sherlock’s tongue slipped between John’s lips once more, circled the tip of John’s tongue and John’s cock surged against his fly. John’s hand glided over Sherlock’s chest, the hard bead of his nipple, down Sherlock’s flat stomach, and his fingers slipped into the edge of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, seeking the drawstring, tangling in the loop, ready to pull. Sherlock’s hand landed decisively on John’s wrist.

                “Wait,” Sherlock whispered.

                John moaned, frustrated, pleading.

“I can’t wait.”

                Sherlock guided John’s hand onto his hip and John’s fingertips dug in along Sherlock’s hipbone.

                “Wait.”

                John tucked his fingertips between Sherlock’s waistband and the warm flesh of his side. Sherlock’s fingers untangled from his and went to work on his belt buckle. John thrust his tongue between Sherlock’s parted lips, hard, imploring. It couldn’t be true, what people said about Sherlock. Being a virgin. Because now Sherlock’s long fingers were opening his fly, and Sherlock was kissing him back just as urgently, and Sherlock was breaking the kiss to lick his palm and spit on his fingertips, and now Sherlock’s slippery fingers were sliding along John’s cock, deliciously, expertly. John let out a deep, low growl and worked his tongue and teeth and lips against Sherlock’s slim neck, beneath his jaw. John’s hand grasped Sherlock’s hip so tightly, he vaguely worried he’d raise a bruise there; Sherlock hummed, and the surprising, rapturous music of it made John press his teeth onto Sherlock’s collarbone.

                John grasped Sherlock by the chin, kissed him hard, pulled back to get his breath, kissed him again, rocked his hips against Sherlock’s hand. He slid his fingers along the waistband of the pyjama pants, found the tail of the knotted drawstring, began to pull. Sherlock hummed approval against John’s ear, his teeth nipping, his tongue darting out to tickle, to taste. The fabric of the pyjamas fell away and John’s hand found Sherlock’s rigid cock—John imagined himself to be clumsy, fumbling, but let it go because he was so desperate for Sherlock, every bit of him—and the mewing sigh that his touch elicited from Sherlock was stunning. John’s cock throbbed; Sherlock’s pace quickened and John wanted to come, wanted it not to end, felt Sherlock rocking against his hand, felt his own cock swelling and bit down on a cry as he came.

                Sherlock’s deft fingers, now slick with John’s cum, slid slowly up and down the length of John’s cock a few more times, and John shuddered against Sherlock’s shoulder, shivered, moaned. In the throes of his orgasm, John’s hand still encircled Sherlock’s cock, and after a moment’s recovery, he slicked his palm with Sherlock’s pre-cum and began firmly, determinedly, to stroke the length of his shaft, which made Sherlock’s breath heave deliciously. John’s other arm was around Sherlock’s shoulder now, and they leaned into each other, Sherlock’s mouth near John’s ear so John heard every gasp and sigh and sharp intake of breath.

                John gauged by the sudden downward tilt in the tone of Sherlock’s voice and the urgency with which Sherlock’s hands found the hem of John’s jumper and vest, and slid up inside to stroke John’s stomach and chest, that Sherlock was nearly there, and John let go a satisfied moan from deep in his throat, kept stroking in steady rhythm, every now and then coating his palm with Sherlock’s pre-cum before sliding his hand back down to the base of Sherlock’s cock. All at once, Sherlock let out an enormous groan and John moved his hand to feel Sherlock’s cum spurting into his palm.

                Sherlock kissed John lazily, deeply, sucking John’s lip into his mouth. They both sank back into the sofa, their heads touching, their hands in each other’s laps, still wrapped in the duvet for the room was by now quite cold. John’s mouth was full of things to say, but he kept it shut. He wiped his sticky palm on the leg of his jeans, then his hand found Sherlock’s and their fingers once again entwined.

                They watched the Lights for a few minutes, until they had caught their breath, and Sherlock sat up, reaching for the bottle of aquavit.

                “Drink?”

                “I shouldn’t. Yes. Definitely.”

                Sherlock poured two shots, passed one to John. Sherlock was sitting forward now, on the edge of the sofa, and John admired the lean length of the back of Sherlock’s neck in the flickering candlelight. He reached out and brushed his fingertips along it, upward, toyed with a curl of Sherlock’s black hair, twisting it around his finger. Sherlock let out a long, purring hum, then sank back again. John’s arm went around him.

                “It’s so quiet,” Sherlock commented, with a tone of surprise.

                “Hm?”

                “In my head. It’s quiet.”

                John grinned, kissed Sherlock’s hair.

                Sherlock gestured smoothly in the air with his long, pale hand. “Just. . .” He let his hand drift, hover, then fall down into the folds of the blanket.

                “Good quiet, or bad quiet?” John asked.

                Sherlock didn’t reply.

                “Sherlock?” John whispered.

                Nothing.

                He was asleep. Tucked against John’s chest, under John’s arm. After they’d just kissed each other and held each other’s hands and made each other sigh and moan. In a blackout, in a snowstorm, in a hotel suite in Scandinavia. John took a last sip of the sharp, herbaceous liquor and set his glass on the edge of the coffee table, then retrieved Sherlock’s glass from its precarious perch in his slackening hand and put it safely out of the way. John put his feet up on the coffee table, let his head loll back onto the sofa, and the last thing he saw was an otherworldly green-blue shimmer, like nothing he’d ever seen before in his life--but why should anything in his life be the same as it had ever been before?--as his eyes fell shut and he slept.

 

 

                John’s arm was dead when they woke up the next morning, from Sherlock having lay upon it all through the night, but he soon forgot it when Sherlock slid against him and under the duvet, and stroked his already half-hard cock into a raging erection with his remarkable fingers, then worked his cunning, hot tongue and lips around it until John bucked against him and came copiously, with a shout and a groan, into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s face appeared from under the blanket, wearing a satisfied, almost wicked smile, and he lay against John’s chest.

                Sherlock rested his palm against his own forehead and closed his eyes. “Quiet,” he breathed. He sounded relieved and delighted.

                John lazily stroked Sherlock’s bare chest.

                The room was warmer now; the power was restored and the heat was running. The sky above the grey-black sea was clear blue, and on the road they could see trucks moving snow, people bundled in wool and fur walking along the sidewalks. John’s mobile, laying on the side table, buzzed to life, and he reached for it, read a text from the airline and said, “Good news. Flight’s on for today. We’ll be back in Baker Street tonight.”

                “Sod it,” Sherlock replied.

                “What’s that, now?”

                “Scandinavia,” he said, but rather than sounding full of scorn as he had the night previous, he said it dreamily, appreciatively, letting each syllable linger.

                John let out a laugh, pinched Sherlock’s nipple playfully.

                “So now you _like_ Scandinavia?” he asked, shaking his head.

                “I would happily kneel to kiss its soil!” Sherlock exclaimed.  “I would _eat_ the soil.”

                “Really, now, you’re just completely carried away. . .”

                “Kill me, John. I would die here--right now, this morning—without a single moment’s protest.”

                “Certainly, I’m not going to kill you. But. . .” John frowned, then grinned. Sherlock was practically giddy; it was delightfully amusing. “Baker Street,” he offered, at last, for lack of anything else.

                Sherlock sighed, lifted John’s wrist to his mouth and kissed it. “Ah, yes,” he agreed, “Baker Street.”

                John’s mouth started to fill up again with things to say, to ask, but he bit his lips and kept quiet because there would be time to say and ask all those things, some other day, back in the real world at home on Baker Street. Sod all the unwelcome noise in his head; if Sherlock’s remarkable, racing mind could be quiet, John could force his own to be, as well. So he busied his mouth with things other than talking. Right now, this moment, was only John and Sherlock, wrapped in a blanket, in Scandinavia.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was influenced, inspired, what-you-will, by the song, "Scandinavia," by Morrissey. You can see/listen to an excellent live version here:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cz1B8B7LrXU


End file.
